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Page 431
the keep walls. The fighting parties began to run toward the ramps they were supposed to cross. The ramps continued to rise as the men walked forward, lifting. Other men aided them from underneath, pushing and walking, pushing and walking, until the long plank bridges were perpendicular. The guards on the wall were winding and firing crossbows now, but there were few and poor targets, most of the men being shielded from the missiles by the bulk of the ramps. Finally, the ramps were overbalanced and fell over, the violence of their drop digging them well into the soft muddy clay of the banks. It did not matter even if the ramps broke. Their only purpose was to save the men from slipping and being bogged in the mud, which was a foot or two deep.
A loud cheer went up from the fighting parties of men-at-arms, who ran faster, a selected few lifting their shields over their heads to form a "turtle." Under this protection, the men who had buried the ladders came forward. More and more arrows were flying down and out now. Thus far, the turtles were not damaged, but it was not long before one who stepped out from under their shield cried out and fell. Another took his place at once. The long ladders began to come loose from the mud that covered them and caused them to adhere to the drained moat. One end was laid across the ramp. Willing hands pulled, pulled. Braced against the crosspieces of the ramp, the ladders lifted sluggishly, wavered, wavered, fell against the wall.
Around the curve of the wall, Ian heard shrieks of disappointment. One of the ladders, at least, had overbalanced and fallen to the side instead of against the wall. "Now!" Ian called to those who followed him, and ran onto the ramp. The turtle parted before him, and he set his foot first on the ladder. He had not drawn his sword. One does not climb a slippery, muddy ladder in full armor without at least one hand to grip the rungs. He did not raise his head to see how close he was to the top, either. That would be an open invitation for an

 
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